


Accumulation

by straightforwardly



Category: Mortal City - Dar Williams (Song)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks about the night of the ice storm, in the days and weeks after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accumulation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViaLethe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViaLethe/gifts).



> vialethe, I would like to thank you for writing such a lovely prompt, because it introduced me to this song. This is short, but I hope you enjoy it! ♥

She thinks about the night of the ice storm, in the days and weeks after. 

She remembers the next morning, how they had woken up to sunlight streaming cold on their faces through her curtainless windows. The awkward morning shuffle— who uses the bathroom first? will you stay for breakfast?— without the night that usually precedes it. She looked away when he stripped off all the layers of extra clothing she had loaned him, and he did the same. 

She thinks about how, when she walked him to the door, he smiled at her. Smiled at her and said, "Thank you for dinner."

She hasn't seen him, since. They've talked on the phone a handful of times, and once he stopped by on a cold day to bring his brother coffee, but she wasn't there. She had gone out for lunch, and when she came back there was a note and a coffee for her cooling on her desk. 

She's never really liked coffee, but she drinks it anyways. 

She starts walking around the city after work, instead of heading straight back to her apartment. She thinks, concrete, concrete, concrete everywhere— haven't they ever heard of flowers? It is not the first time she has thought this. Spring is coming, and there's scarcely a hint of green anywhere.

Then she remembers what he said, and looks at the people instead. Friends walking together in groups of twos and threes and fours, chatting and laughing with scarves around their necks. Toddlers crying, and mothers comforting them, people drinking coffee in cafes, together or alone and content, people pouring over books together in bookshops and on benches. People, people, people everywhere. 

She doesn't know if she really understands, but she thinks she's starting to.

—

He stops by her workplace one day, when she's getting ready to go home.

He says, "I'm sorry for not coming earlier."

He says, "Can I show you the city?"

She says yes.

—

He takes her to the boardwalk along the river. She hasn't been there in months, not since she first moved to the city. All she could see then was the rows of overpriced shops and cafes, the skyscrapers rising in the background, the trash littering the ground.

She hadn't gone back since, not until now. 

The river is beautiful. She wonders how she didn't see that, before. 

They get ice cream despite the chill still hovering in the air. He chooses pistachio and she, vanilla, and they walk alongside the river as dusk fades to night.

She can't see the stars— hasn't seen them in months. When she says this, he points out the lights strung alongside the river, how they glitter like fireflies.

—

They both have work the next day.

The bus drops them off at her stop, and he walks her rest of the way. When they reach the doorstep of her apartment, they hesitate.

"Next week?" he asks, finally, and she nods. 

She hugs him good-bye, and watches him disappear around the corner, his back illuminated by the city lights. 

She goes inside.

—

The next day at work, his brother turns to her and asks, out of the blue, "Are you happy?"

Are you happy with this job? This city? 

With him? 

He can be asking any number of things— she isn't sure which.

She says, "Yes."


End file.
